Bound To The Burden
by Astheal
Summary: His war was over. Lee was dead. With his tribe gone, what was there left to fight for? Connor returns to the Homestead after ending his hunt, but the road to recovery is rarely a smooth one. Somewhat post-game, T for future language.
1. Return

Oh boy. Another fandom for me to write for. This fic is meant to begin immediately after the death of Charles Lee, after which Connor somehow manages to get himself back to the Homestead, and will continue on past the end of the game. Not sure how long yet.

Also, apologies in advance for the weirdness of this chapter. I know it doesn't really give any sort of context whatsoever, but the next one will tell you exactly what's happening here. I promise.

* * *

The sun was setting. The world had a tendency to thicken at the edges when the day came to an end, mixing shadows and gold against each other and blurring the barrier between one place and another until it was easy to become lost amongst the depthless dapples and darkness.

He was lost in a sea of colors that had no end.

_Eyes forward. Ignore. Pain will turn to numbness. Numbness can be controlled._

Vague silhouettes of familiar landmarks leered at him from behind the patchwork of the fading sun, slipping between the leaves of the canopy above him and throwing their deceiving shapes across the grass and dirt.

How far had he come?

_Focus, boy._ The old man's voice haunted him even now.

One more step. And one more after that. The journey behind him blurred with what was still ahead of him, fading into a meaningless sequence of _one more steps._ One more step. That was all. It would take him home.

_Home where?_

The world dimmed suddenly, slipping into black and purple. Was he on the ground? How long had he been there?

It didn't matter.

He had no feeling left, leaving only the jarring of his bones to inform him that he was back on his feet. One more step was all he needed. One more step after that.

Was this the right way?

"Y'lookin fer Davenport, boy? Don' worry; yer almos' there," the stranger said kindly.

Ratonhnake:ton nodded and dipped his head thankfully; the world of the white man was a large and strange place, full of names and directions and all sorts of things that didn't make sense. The Mohawk frowned to himself as he set off in the direction the stranger had pointed. They were such odd creatures, to give names to the land itself. The land didn't need a name; it wasn't as if it was a creature, like a hare or a wolf. No, the land was all the _other_ things––the animals and trees and the stones and the rivers. Like grains of sand on the seashore, the land was and endless array of knots and weaves and beads, like Clan Mother's beautiful belt. Ratonhnake:ton could have looked at it for days and would still know nothing of its changing patterns, just like a strange land. One had to live and _breathe_ the world around them before they could understand that there was no end.

Why was it dark? He had thought that the sun was setting, but the moon was already peering over the eastern horizon. Had he lost track of time? Strange, he felt hot, even in the cool nighttime air.

A sudden twinge of guilt found its way into his mind, but it was overcome by a gleeful sense of pride. Biting his lip, Ratonhnake:ton looked around for any signs of someone sneaking up on him.

"Kanen'tó:kon?" he called out.

No response. Ratonhnake:ton laughed out loud and picked up his pace. Nevermind the numbness; he wanted to see his cousin's face after such a fun game! Not one of them had found his hiding spot, even after this long! They would feel so foolish.

There, he could see him now. He was crouching silently behind a fallen tree, looking ahead intently. Was he hunting?

Ratonhnake:ton tried to whisper, but no sound came out. He tried again, and again he failed. It wasn't his throat, it was his lungs; he couldn't breathe properly. The heat, it was beginning to overwhelm him. Something was wrong.

Something was very, very wrong.

He tried to call out, as he had done only moments before, but this time the words would not come. A sudden, crushing sense of dread settled over him. This wasn't right. This couldn't––he couldn't understand _why._ Why hadn't he seen it before? He'd been so _trusting_, so _naive_, believing that they had meant freedom for everyone. Why hadn't they hurt_ him_? _Connor_ was the one to blame, not his people! Not Kanen'tó:kon! He should have told them everything, should have tried harder, should have––

––the figure behind the tree uncoiled, pulling a musket up to aim at something Connor could not see, but he had no time to think; he had to stop him, or he would bring death upon them all! He had to stop him, but he couldn't _move!_ Every part of his body was numb and leaden, and he couldn't _breathe!_ No, no, he had to do something! He swayed on his feet, grasping at every last trace of strength he still had in him. He didn't care if he couldn't stand anymore, he just had to _stop this._

"Kanen'tó:kon!"

Kanen'tó:kon turned, and Connor's heart dropped. The blood… the wound… no… _please_, no…

"I didn't mean to," he choked, barely noticing that he was on the ground. "I didn't mean for any of this."

Kanen'tó:kon dashed to Connor's side, blotting out the moon until there was nothing but shadow and the distant thunder of gunfire.

"You have to believe me! There is a way to keep our people safe, but this is not it!"

"I rather think it is." Someone else appeared over Kanen'tó:kon's shoulder, someone old and familiar and evil.

"Charles Lee," Connor snarled, struggling to rise even as Kanen'tó:kon moved to hold him down.

"You should have listened to your father, boy. Perhaps all of this could have been avoided in the first place."

"You did this!" Connor shouted, thrashing against the hands pinning him down. "You did all of this!"

But the Templar only turned, as if Connor was no longer worth his time, and disappeared into the forest.

"I will find you, Charles Lee!" Connor screamed. "I will find you and I will kill you! Let me go, Kanen'tó:kon! He is lying to you!"

A brief moment of luck saw him kick his friend away, and Connor began to struggle to his feet. He was _burning!_ His veins were drowning in fire, and it was climbing up his throat and throttling him. He wanted to fight, _needed_ to fight, to do _anything_ to relieve the bottomless forge that was swallowing him whole.

Why was there so much blood on the ground?

"Ratonhnake:ton, why do you do this?" Kanen'tó:kon was on him again. "You put them down, and still they rise. Those that know you think you mad, and this is why. Why do you still fight?"

His hand closed around his pistol. "Because no one else will!"

Kanen'tó:kon avoided the shot and pinned Connor's arm, but even the dirt beneath him seared him like a brand.

"That is why you fight? That is why you abandon your tribe? Your _family?_"

"I didn't mean to! It was never supposed to be this way!"

"It _is_ this way, Ratonhnake:ton! The men in blue were at our doorstep, and the men in red gave us muskets and metal to fight against them! What other path was there to take?"

"I don't know!"

"Do you not fight for our people?"

"Everything I have done has been for our people, Kanen'tó:kon! Everything!"

"You killed our people, Ratonhnake:ton! You killed _me!_"

"It was an accident!"

"Over here!" More were coming. Whoever they were––Templars, Patriots, Redcoats––Connor knew that they were his enemies, if they were aligned with Lee and now Kanen'tó:kon.

Connor stilled. "Are you going to let them kill me, brother?"

"You are one of them now, Ratonhnake:ton. You stopped being my brother long ago. You chose to live like one of them, and so you will die like one of them."

They came into the light, one by one: Johnson, Pittcairn, Hickey, Lee, all those he had slain to see the Patriots succeed. Each one a symbol, each one a success that had carried to the end and to complete, utter failure. Blood spattered them each, marking their fatal wound, on the neck, the chest, the stomach, each leering and taunting him. _You did it,_ they said._ You killed us all. All for nothing!_

"Where is Haytham?" Connor snarled.

"You know exactly where he is," Charles Lee said, almost irritated in his voice. "A grave in New York. You interrupted the funeral, remember?"

The Templars spread out, circling the two Mohawk, and Charles Lee came to kneel next to Kanen'tó:kon. Connor struggled again, but Kanen'tó:kon prevented him from reaching the one who had begun all of his troubles.

"I will kill you, Lee!" Connor swore. "As many times as I have to!"

Charles Lee reached for the Assassin's robes and pulled the shredded cloth away, leering spitefully at where Connor had been impaled. "Because you did such a bang-up job last time."

In the distance, someone shouted, "We've got the wagon!"

Hickey turned, looked beyond Connor's line of sight, then turned back. "'At's your ride, boyo," he said. "Funny 'ow you keep gettin' stuck in 'em."

"No!" Connor roared, heaving Kanen'tó:kon and Charles Lee off of him. Immediately the Templars were upon him, grasping and twisting and lacing around him to keep him still. They were closing in, taking the air, making it burn hotter, faster, blending into one another until he was _suffocating––_he couldn't let them!

Connor didn't think that there was anyone alive as intimately acquainted with death as he was. He knew how powerful a tool it could be, either to encourage silence… or to encourage action. And with the patient, expectant breath of the Sky World at his back, he knew, without a doubt, that these Templars were going to kill him.

But that didn't mean he was going to let them do it easily.

Someone was behind him, arms around his chest to immobilize his arms. He used their strength against his captors, dropping all of his weight into that tight embrace, bringing his feet off the ground, kicking, _forcing_ the tight knot of people apart-

––and almost losing consciousness completely under the eruption of utter, blazing _agony._

He was only peripherally aware of being dropped; the night, which had at first been cold and unfocused, had disappeared. His vision was slipping in and out of existence, and the voices of those around him were beginning to blend into white noise. Was this going to be the last thing he knew, then?

Hands were returning, searing his flesh as they grabbed him, dragged him, hoisted him up. He snarled tried to escape, but the pain was too great and his legs wouldn't move no matter how desperately he tried. Someone was wrapping around him again, in front this time, and again his arms were trapped. With the world blurred, Connor had no way of knowing exactly which of his tormentors it was, but he knew _where_ they were so that it didn't matter. He cracked his forehead against his captor's nose, then crumpled to the ground when his support vanished.

He could feel his strength fading.

More hands came, bigger hands, smaller hands, hands that he was losing the power to fight against. He tried to yank free, but his efforts were fast becoming a lost cause. The agony was winning out over the spiteful defiance, and he had to fight against himself to keep afloat. Every breath was a laborious task to be completed, over and over, and he found himself wondering if it would be less exhausting to just stop.

He was pulled from the ground by hands that evaded his continued struggling, and soon he felt the hard, unforgiving surface of wooden planks. Was that Hickey grinning down at him, or Lee?

"You will not win," Connor growled, once more fighting back whatever pain he could in order to resist, more out of the desire to make their lives difficult than out of any real hope of escape. "We rise again, as well. You eradicate us, but every time you rise we rise against you, because our creed is not an ancient set of principles or goals. It is truth."

He twisted and growled, dislodging someone from atop his shoulder. But he was too weak to even attempt and escape, and so all he could do was wait until they were back on him.

"I may die, but I am not the last. You can… you can kill me, you can kill Stephane, Clipper, Carter…" He trailed off as his breath failed him. It came to him short and shallow, heavy and thick until it felt like a tedious chore to simply take one after another. "You can kill us… all. And again… we will rise. Because we… we are the people you try to… to control. We are the… people that will never… accept anything… but… freedom…"


	2. Being Home

Alright, so I really didn't want to do another surreal chapter, but it just sort of happened. But I got some help with this one, so hopefully it'll be more linear than the last one and will make more sense.

* * *

"_Stop reading that journal, boy," Achilles scolded. "It'll do you no good."_

_Connor started and turned, letting the leatherbound tome snap closed and drop to the ground where he slid it guiltily under the table with his foot._

"_Why do you keep looking at that?" the old man asked. "It's a book of lies."_

"_It's just a journal, Achilles."_

"_It's your father's journal. You should burn it before his words start making you like him."_

"_He is not evil."_

"_He is evil. He is a Templar."_

"_He is misguided, Achilles. No more than that."_

"_Spare me your fairytales, boy. There is nothing in this world that is wholly good. It is only a matter of time before the innocent become the guilty."_

"_That is not true. People are good, and he is, too. That is why we fight, isn't it? Mankind can be free and happy, without the control of overlords."_

"_Free, yes. But we are chaotic and violent creatures. Happiness and peace? It is a dream, Connor. You fight for that which does not exist."_

"_Yes it does," Connor retorted. "I have seen it."_

"_Where?"_

"_My village is free and it is peaceful. We do not lie. We do not steal. We do not fight one another over disagreements."_

"_But for how long?"_

"_That is the way it has always been. That is the way it will always be."_

"_Then you grew up in a lie, Connor. That is not real."_

"_Yes it is. Let me show you."_

"_And then I will show you different."_

"_We will see, old man."_

_The two Assassins left the manor and set off, and in short order Connor was seeing familiar landmarks. That was where he had been attacked by a mountain lion when he had first left. That was where he had pulled Kanen'tó:kon from the river._

"_We're almost there," Connor informed his mentor._

"_I don't see anything."_

"_It's over there."_

"_Over where?"_

"_Over there."_

"_There's nothing over there, Connor."_

_Connor frowned. "What are you talking about? Of course…" _

_There lay the lakeshore, peaceful and sandy and empty. Connor's heart skipped a beat._

"_Where are they?" he asked. "They've always been right there!"_

"_It is as I told you, Connor. That kind of peace doesn't exist."_

"_Yes it does! We just… I have to find them."_

"_They don't exist, boy."_

"_They do! We just need to find them."_

"_And where do you propose to start?"_

"_George Washington. He will help."_

"_Washington?" Achilles laughed. "He is worse than your father."_

"_No he isn't. He is a freedom fighter, like us. He is a good man."_

"_When are you going to get it through your head, boy? There is no such thing as a good man."_

"_When we find my people, I will prove otherwise."_

"_I highly doubt that."_

_They made their way to Valley Forge, where the weather seemed much warmer than the place they had left. Connor made his way up the battlements and called out to the first soldier he saw._

"_Where is the Commander?"_

"_Just up ahead, can't miss 'im."_

"_Do you smell smoke?" Achilles asked._

_Connor did smell smoke. It was making him more nervous. The world was growing darker above them with each step, but ahead… ahead was the deadly orange glow of firelight. The fire was huge, taller than a tree and too wide to see the end of; animals fled, and the dark, unmistakable silhouette of George Washington stood before it. With a sickening jolt Connor realized why he was so afraid. _

_His village was burning before his eyes. _

"_No!" He sprinted past Washington and between the crackling walls. People––_his_ people––were running, screaming, burning, dying, and there was nothing he could do about it. But there was one person he needed to find before all else, and it was a person not in the open. In a longhouse, then? _

"_Kanen'tó:kon!" he shouted. He needed to go between––no, a tree was falling, blazing into his path. A different way, behind the longhouses. There! He could see it!_

"_Kanen'tó:kon!" Ratonhnake:ton called out, skidding to a stop and banging on the walls. He was too small, too weak to break through!_

"_Ratonhnake:ton! Get away from here!"_

"_No! I'm not leaving you!" He took off past the longhouse, looking for a way in. Another moment and he was cowering beneath the thundering crack of the longhouse splitting open as one wall fell away completely, giving him the opening he needed. The young boy dashed into the burning construct, and there was Kanen'tó:kon at the end––bloodied, buried beneath a pile of burning timber._

"_Ratonhnake:ton! You need to leave!"_

"_No, I'm going to save you!" Without thought he put his shoulder to the wood, pushing with all of his might. Even his four-year-old mind knew that if he didn't move it _now,_ he would never see the person underneath again._

"_You see, Connor?" It was Washington, wrapping an arm around him and lifting him away._

"_No!" Ratonhnake:ton screeched. "Let me go! Let me save him!"_

_Washington pulled them out of the longhouse just in time to see it collapse under the burden of its own inferno, collapsing in on itself and on the person inside it._

"Kanen'tó:kon!"

_Washington dropped Connor onto the ground, where the Assassin almost choked on his own tears._

"_Why?" he rasped. "After everything I've done for you?"_

"_Don't put the blame here, Connor," Washington replied, mounting the horse that had belonged to John Pitcairn on the day of his death. "You were the one naïve enough to trust me."_

_And with that, the Commander left Connor to his people._

"_It was his fault!" someone shouted. "He brought this upon us! Him and his blue coats!"_

"_No!" Connor looked up to see the Kanien'kahá:ka emerging from the flames, familiar faces now twisted in hatred. "It was an accident!"_

"_He killed Kanen'tó:kon!" they cried, hefting sticks and arrows that were still burning._

"I'm sorry! Just give me more time! Please!"

"_No more time," said Clan Mother. "You have hurt us enough."_

_They descended upon him, ignoring his _struggles, binding him down with rope and cloth until he couldn't move_._

"_No more forgiveness," they said._

"I'm sorry," Connor whispered _as they left him there._

"_Sorrow does not change what is," Haytham said, although his voice was almost sympathetic._

Connor shifted against his bonds, _watching as his father rose from the chair at the _far end of the room_ and came to stand at his bedside._

"_You see, son, it is a dream you fight for. An admirable one, but one that is impossible."_

"You're wrong."

"_Am I? Show me where I am wrong, and I shall believe you. Show me a trusted ally that has not turned their back on you. One."_

Connor had no response.

"_For all their talk of freedom and liberty, the people you fight so hard to support think nothing of such things. Their words are tools meant to make their own positions stronger. Peace is simply not possible."_

"I cannot believe that."

"_But you see it every day. Seeing and not believing isn't faith, son. It's madness."_

"Your words will not turn me from it."

_Haytham sighed, and after a moment he stood and straightened his jacket._

"_I believe you," he said, turning to leave. "I wonder what would have happened, had Charles Lee succeeded that day." He _paused at the door to throw a last glance over his shoulder._ "For what it's worth, I wish it hadn't ended between us like it did."_

"I know, father."

_Another moment, and _Connor was alone. A soft wind was creeping through the room, hardly more than a breeze, chilling the sweat that drenched his body. The blanket on top of him managed to keep it away from anywhere else, but he still couldn't help but shiver. It was ruffling the curtains over the open window, sending dim shafts of light across the floor that angled in such a way that it was either early morning or late afternoon, although without any way to identify east or west he was unable to tell which.

Connor's mind was clearing and his senses were crawling back to him. His father was dead. Achilles was dead. Kanen'tó:kon was dead. It had been a dream.

Training reared its head soon enough, organizing his thoughts into rigid lists of what surrounded him.

_What did he see?_ Wooden room, neither big nor small. Ceiling. Straight boards. Uniform nails. All new, no more than a few years old.

_What did he smell?_ Alcohol, but not for drinking. Sterile metal. Candle wax. Ink. Opium.

_What did he feel?_ Warmth. Sweat. A bed. Utterly exhausted. Immobile. A few twitches of the hand were all he could manage, but it was enough for him to conclude that his wrists were bound.

_What did he hear?_ Wind. A far away raven. Rustling leaves. A distinct lack of city noise. Footsteps on wooden floorboards, approaching. Muffled voices growing louder.

Immediately he tried to synthesize it all into something sensible. He was in a bed, surrounded by… a medical facility? Or at least some amount of medicines, and candles, and whoever had brought him here had cared enough about his comfort to both place a pillow under his head and to tuck the blanket around him. But they had also felt the need to tie him down, which counteracted the theory of a good Samaritan. And he still had no clue as to his location or the time of day.

As the voices became steadily louder, Connor tried to reach back to his most recent moment of clarity. It proved difficult, even when he skipped the assault by slain Templars, as everything before that seemed to be an unhelpful blend of pain and emotion. He could remember walking, and before that he remembered Lee, in the back room of the tavern where man had given up on running, but even though that was something Connor couldn't be sure he was recalling properly… yes, he was certain, in spite all the indistinct details, that Charles Lee was dead. That was the last thing he remembered that made sense before he stumbled out of the tavern and towards… where? He recalled walking, but then the Templars had appeared and Connor chose to disregard anything after that. His memory gave him nothing as to where he might have ended up, or where he might be now. And without the ability to move or make any changes to his situation, all he could do was wait for the approaching voices to present more useful information.

Moments passed, and the voices grew louder.

"I am telling you, 'e was speaking English! And 'e looked right at me!"

Connor knew that voice.

"Well, that could mean he's close, but if he didn't recognize you then there's still something to go through."

"But 'e _saw_ me! I saw 'is eyes; 'e was watching me when I left the room!"

"Norris, keep it down! It's been hard enough already; don't get everyone riled up on false hope."

"But it isn't false––"

"Would you just stop talking for one moment?" They had stopped just outside the door. "I don't know _what_ you saw, and I'm not saying it's nothing, but let's save it until we're certain! Alright?"

Silence.

"Thank you!"

The hinges creaked as the door was opened, and Connor blinked as an exhausted-looking Lyle White stepped over the threshold, followed by a bouncing Norris. A glance at the Assassin was all Norris needed to get going again.

"You see?" he said too loudly, making Connor blink at a sudden headache. "What did I tell––"

"_Shh!"_ Doctor White hissed, putting a finger to his lips.

Norris quieted, and the Doctor took a quiet step towards the bed.

"Connor?" White said softly.

Connor tried to respond, but he couldn't summon enough breath. Something was constricting him. He tried again, and with a bit of effort he managed a dull rasp:

"Doctor White." The air was coarse and grating against the skin of his throat. It felt like someone had force-fed him gravel. As for his audience, Norris's face lit up into a grin, while Lyle White settled for eyes that sparked hopefully.

"You recognize me?" the Doctor asked. "And Norris?"

Connor didn't much feel like dragging words out again so he settled for a tiny nod that made his neck hurt despite almost no movement.

"Doctor?" the miner said breathlessly.

"Give me a moment, Norris." White crossed the distance to Connor's side and sat, reaching for the younger man's forehead. The doctor's skin was warmer than Connor had expected and relieved some of the chill.

Norris was practically bouncing on his feet. "Well?"

"Well, if you don't stop talking and let me work I will lock you outside and make you wait. Am I understood?"

"... Yes, sir."

"Good. You can hear me, Connor?"

Connor pulled forth a nod.

"Do you know where you are?

He shook his head.

"You're in my house, Connor. You're home."

For a wild moment, Connor thought he meant with the Kanien'kahá:ka. But no, reason yanked him back to the knowledge that White and Norris being amongst his people was simply not a thing that would ever happen. He meant the other home, with horses and bridges and people that were not of that world. Homestead?

He was at the homestead?

"Do you remember what happened, Connor?"

_I killed Charles Lee,_ Connor didn't say. But beyond that he had no idea, and so he shook his head.

"You've been injured. Badly. You were running a fever when we found you."

Connor attempted a question, but it took a few tries before he managed to force out, "How long?"

"You've been with us for three days. You passed the worst of it last night, and a damned miracle, too. Don't think I've ever seen a constitution quite as stubborn as yours."

"Why… hands…"

The doctor made the leap and glanced at Connor's wrists. "You were hallucinating. Couldn't risk letting you hurt yourself any worse than you already were." Retreating from his patient, the doctor nodded to himself and let out a relieved sigh. "It looks like the fever's broken. And before you start crowing, Norris, at least have the decency to do it out of earshot."

"But… 'e will live, _non?"_

White huffed and pulled the blanket off Connor's chest to examine something Connor could not bend his head enough to see without conjuring up another explosive headache. "Not if you annoy him to death with your fidgeting. Go bother Myriam or Big Dave. There's still work to do."

"Can I…?"

"Yes, you can tell them he's awake. But for God's sake, don't bring them in to gawk; the man's been through enough already."

"_Oui_!" Norris promised, dashing off.

Doctor White sighed and returned the blanket to its previous position. "Well, at least your bandages stayed in place this time. I don't suppose you'd care to share how you got burned, shot and stabbed with a piece of wood?"

Connor opened his mouth, but he had no idea how to respond. He certainly couldn't tell White the truth, but even if he did, where would he start? He had been burned and shot and stabbed because of an oath he had made when he was four years old, and because of everything since then.

"Oh, nevermind; you don't have to answer that. Looks like talking's a chore for you, anyway. You're probably exhausted."

Connor twitched out a relieved nod. He didn't want to find an explanation that was safe for the doctor to hear right now. He'd been exhausted since he'd woken up.

"Here, let me get those restraints." He untied Connor hands and even carried them to Connor's side, although the movement made the Assassin realize that his shoulders were very, very sore. Everything he tried to move seemed sore.

"There. Get some rest, Connor. The others will be rotating watches to make sure you don't turn for the worse."

Connor nodded. "Thank you."

After another quick check that everything was in order, Lyle White left the Assassin to his own devices. The door closed behind him, and by the time his footsteps faded Connor had been claimed by a deep, dreamless sleep.


	3. Filling Silence

He was woken by humming.

Connor did not open his eyes immediately; he was confused and his thoughts weren't working properly yet, and the only thing he was sure of was that he was not in any immediate danger. This gave him the confidence to take his time in prying his eyes open and making sense of what he could remember. Doctor White. Norris. His father? No, his father was dead; that part must have been a dream.

When the sleep cleared and he could see again, Connor was able to determine that it was much later than he last remembered. There was no sunlight streaming between drawn curtains, but neither was the darkness absolute; the flickering light of a candle threw dancing shadows over the walls along with the thicker, more rhythmic light of a hearth somewhere else in the room that he could not see, and they were both dim lights that did not hurt his eyes now that they were open and roaming.

The humming that had woken him was gentle and lilting, something halfway between a work-song and a lullaby. There were no words, but he was certain that he'd heard the tune somewhere before. It was a trial to tilt his head, but he managed it and could soon lay eyes upon the singer.

Of course. Ellen always sang when she worked.

The seamstress was seated where his father––or was it Norris?––had been seated, looking at a pile of blue and white cloth in her lap and picking through it, moving and repositioning as her needle danced in and out. But her face wasn't the usual mask of determination that Connor had learned to mean that she was focusing. There was instead a sadness in her eyes, one that Connor had never seen there before. It pulled at her lip and left her forehead creased deeply with worry, even as she hummed what was usually such a soothing melody. Perplexed, the Assassin continued to watch and wonder why such unhappiness might be guiding her movements.

It took less than a minute for Ellen to pause in her work and glance up, and she stopped humming immediately. Her eyes widened, she blinked, opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. "… Connor?"

He nodded. "Ellen." His throat didn't hurt as much as it had before, but now it was dry and coarse. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and he was incredibly thirsty.

"Oh, thank the Lord," Ellen breathed. "Norris told us you'd woken up, but…" She took in a shuddering breath. "It's good to see you alright. I… do you need anything? Doctor White told me you might be thirsty if you woke up. Or hungry."

Connor was both of these things, but the first was more pressing. "May I…" He tried to swallow and failed. "... water?"

"Yes, of course, I––here." She stood and made her way over to the foot of the bed, where Connor assumed a table was standing when he couldn't actually crane his neck to look. Metal clanked, liquid sloshed, and then Ellen was at his side with a tin cup.

Eager to ease the dryness in his throat, Connor pressed his elbows into the bed to push himself up and then was very nearly blinded excruciating pain in his side. The world went black for a few moments, and then he was back on the bed with Ellen leaning over him.

"Connor? Connor, here, don't sit up." She brought the cup to his lips and tilted it, giving him a slow and manageable trickle of water that was just enough to relieve the burning of his throat and distract from the pounding pain in his abdomen. She watched him as he drank, bringing the cup upright when he paused to swallow and returning it when he was ready for more. It was a plodding, methodical process that dragged much more slowly than Connor would have liked, but every drawn out moment relieved more of his pain and the cup was empty far too quickly.

But now, with his thirst slaked, Connor faced a more immediate concern.

As Ellen turned to attend to the cup, Connor twisted and dug his elbows into the mattress again, gritting his teeth his body's screaming protests, and dragged himself higher onto his pillow.

"What are you doing?" Ellen cried, returning to his side. "You can't move yet!"

"I need to see," Connor ground out raggedly. He let his shoulders rest against the headboard and shoved off his blanket, exposing what lay beneath, and assessed the true extent of the damage.

Bandages encircled almost every bit of skin he could see from his collar to his hips, heaviest on his abdomen and lightest on his chest. He knew where he had been stabbed, but hadn't the doctor told him he'd been shot as well? He couldn't remember such a thing, but it was possible his memory was failing him at this moment. His hands had been visibly burned, and they cracked when he tried to flex them. He hadn't intended to receive such damage. He had been careless in his pursuit of Ch… he had been careless.

Ellen took in a sharp breath of air when his bandages were exposed. This must have been her first time laying eyes on his injuries, as well. Connor sighed and let his skull fall back against the headboard. His entire body hurt, and even a simple shifting of blankets had left him more drained than it had any right to.

"Do you want to eat something?" Ellen asked, shifting on her feet and looking everywhere but at Connor's bandages. "Corrine made some broth and I've kept it warm. It isn't too thick."

_Do what you need, not what you want._ Another saying Achilles had spent years drilling into him until it had become an everyday truth. Need before want. Food before rest.

"Yes, please," he replied politely, dragging his head up.

"It's just over here," she said, returning to wherever she had gotten the water. More metal clanks and sloshing liquid, and she returning with a bowl that smelled good enough for Connor to realize just how achingly hollow his stomach was. When had been the last time he'd eaten? It didn't matter. He dragged his head up as she sat down next to him, and with some more effort he managed to reach for it. He refused to be incapable of even holding his own food.

Ellen saw his efforts, and it only deepened the crease on her brow. Still, she let him have his prize––something that hurt his hands even to hold––and gave him a spoon to eat it with. He wrestled it into his lap, which throbbed in protest, and she watched him finally claim a spoonful of the broth with a furrowed brow, eyes dark and glimmering with the same sadness he had seen in her sewing. He took two more spoonfuls––how Corrine could make flat broth so appetizing was beyond him––then set the spoon down and frowned at Ellen quizzically.

"You are troubled," he said.

She blinked. "What?"

"You are sad. Why?"

Ellen stared at him for a moment, as if she wasn't sure she'd heard him correctly, and then burst into… laughter? Tears? Connor honestly couldn't tell which.

"Oh, Connor," she half-choked, "of course you'd ask that."

Connor was immediately alarmed. "I meant no offense," he backpedaled.

"Offense!" This time he knew she was laughing. "You were almost on your deathbed two days ago and you're worried about offending _me?"_

"I… am not on my deathbed?" It was meant to be a statement but emerged as a question. Connor was lost as to what the correct response was.

"No," she sniffed, turning abruptly weary and worried again. "You're not."

Without warning, Ellen extended her hand to touch the Assassin's face, but halted just shy of his skin when she saw his look of discomfort. She cleared her throat and let her hand drop.

"I… I'm sorry," she said. "I know you don't like to be touched."

"Thank you. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," she replied, looking at her hands. "I'm the one that got carried away."

Connor wasn't sure how to carry on the conversation, but he tried to. "So, you are not offended?"

"No. I was just... thinking," Ellen admitted finally. "About what could have happened. How close you were to not making it. That's what was troubling me."

"I am here now."

"And I'm glad." She looked down to where his abdomen lay exposed, although she did not touch. "Who did this to you, Connor?"

He glanced down at where his worst wound lay beneath the bandages. "... A man who was not evil."

Ellen glanced up at him, and Connor was thankful when she did not press the matter. A silence fell over them, something thin and rickety that left Connor staring into his bowl and thinking of nothing beyond how exhausted he was, with his meal, with their conversation, with the ghosts of Achilles' voice telling him to hold his tongue, to protect the secrets at the back of his throat hissing and roiling for dominance because it seemed like they were too heavy to swallow down, and because the fact that even if they let themselves loose, they would fall onto innocent ears that could know nothing about his true burden. But he knew better than to entertain the idea; the secrets he carried, they were the sort that were dangerous even in the silent knowing of them.

"Are you finished with the broth?"

Connor was pulled from his thoughts and looked at Ellen, who was shifting in her seat. "Yes," he said with the barest hint of a nod.

"Here." She took his bowl from him.

"Thank you, Ellen."

"You're welcome." She stood and moved back to the table beyond the foot of his bed, taking care of what he had left uneaten.

Connor again set himself to the painful task of hauling his body about, returning to his back so he could finally give in to prickling exhaustion behind his eyes. He knew better than to bend, and so he was forced to turn to feet and knees to push the blanket back to where he could grab it, but even then he couldn't seem to move the cloth where he needed it. Ellen was back before he had the chance to find a way.

"Let me help," she said, pulling the blanket smoothly back over him. He nodded in gratitude, although on the inside he silently burned because he Could not even move his own blanket without assistance.

Perhaps sensing his thoughts, Ellen looked down at him and let a hand rest on his arm through the material of the covers.

"You are strong, Connor," she said. "I don't imagine it will be long at all before you're good as new."

"Thank you, Ellen."

Somehow, her words brought him little comfort.

Ellen returned to her seat, picked up the blue and white cloth––were those his robes?––and returned to her sewing. Though it took a few more moments for Connor to drift off, he noticed in those moments that the seamstress's shoulders now held significantly less weight. And that, at least, managed to make him feel marginally less frustrated.


	4. Repetition

The following days were a disjointed blur of time and silence. Night and day managed to lose weight after the first few sunsets; Connor slept when he was tired, he woke when he was no longer tired and then he waited for enough time to pass that he could go back to sleep again.

Thinking back on the time spent in recovery, Connor wouldn't have been able to say exactly how long he lay in the unfamiliar bed. In the beginning, he tried to keep track by counting the rotations of the homesteaders who volunteered to watch him and make sure that he didn't hurt himself again––because apparently that was something he had done under the fever. It wasn't much, but if he fell asleep to Ellen's humming and woke up to Warren's whispery breathing, he assumed that at least one day had passed by. He rarely talked, save for the occasional wordless response to, "Connor, good, you're awake. Are you feeling better?" Connor couldn't really tell if he ever felt better than the last time he had been asked the question, but he would nod, grunt, and then wait for the day to be over.

He didn't know why time felt so painful. He felt anxious whenever he opened his eyes, although he could never quite figure out why. He woke, and then he waited––waited for what? He waited for enough time to pass that he could fall back asleep, and then wake up and then go back to sleep.

_Charles Lee is dead._ The fact presented itself to him every time he stirred. There was no triumph or sadness to the fact; it simply _was,_ and he would run back through his mind to confirm the details of how it had come to pass. No pride. No grief. No relief. A simple, emotionless confirmation that Charles Lee was indeed gone, and then the rest of them would present themselves.

_Achilles is dead._ The sight of his mentor slumped over in his chair, hat over his eyes, no longer raised any lumps in his throat. It was what it was. Connor didn't have the energy to grieve again quite yet, and so he pushed it aside. The next one would arrive promptly.

_Haytham Kenway is dead._ He always hoped that he had the sequence of events correct; he hadn't been thinking straight since he killed Lee, and he suspected that Doctor White was slipping him something for pain when he wasn't looking.

_Kanen'to:kon is dead._ This was the one that came the closest to hurting him. He never expected to remember it when he woke up, because he was used to waking up to a world where his friend was alive and well, and he had to realize repeatedly that such a world no longer existed.

These thoughts came to him in the same order every time he opened his eyes. Charles Lee, Achilles, Haytham, Kanen'to:kon. It was like a memorized script, repeated over and over: he would shift, return to consciousness, and then his memories would organize themselves and parade before him with fluid precision.

They would only be interrupted when his watcher for the day grew too uncomfortable with the silence and began to ask questions, usually about his health and if he'd had enough to eat and if he needed anything. Grunt, nod, shake of the head. His throat didn't feel as rough as it once had, but he still limited his responses. What in the world could they possibly had a conversation about?

Eventually, the need for a watchperson faded, and he found himself waking up to an empty room more and more often. Still, those that remained to keep him company would do the same fussing that they always had, and so he would give them the same short answers until the time came to be done with it.

It was Prudence that was able to get the most words out of him. She stayed with him more during the night, always with the same pile of blue and white cloth. The fourth night he was fully lucid, she even managed to pry a conversation out of him.

"Are you in much pain, Connor?" she asked abruptly, after what felt like an hour or so of silence.

The replay of death halted before his eyes as he tried to come up with the most efficient answer. He ended up with another grunt and a noncommittal shrug.

"Doctor White says he'll have you off… whatever he's giving you, in just a little while. He says that you're not going to die, but he wants you to stay here for a bit. Something about your stitches."

Connor looked down at his abdomen, trying to imagine what his wound must look like underneath all the layers; he hadn't really seen any of his own skin since he'd returned to the homestead. He'd forgotten most of what had happened between himself and Lee at the shipyards; he couldn't recall exactly how large the timber was, or where he'd been shot, and his entire chest was a level mass of white cloth that hid any trace of that information from him.

Experimentally, he flexed his hands. There was a twinge of discomfort, but he was becoming used to his situation, and he could even move his arms reliably. Moving his feet and toes was harder, and much more painful.

"Are you alright, Connor?" Prudence was watching him move, suddenly motionless with eyes narrowed in concern.

"Fine." It was the first real word he had managed in days.

Prudence was one of those few that usually didn't even bother to ask if he was hungry; she simply put down her sewing, stood up and retrieved a bowl of porridge from next to the fireplace whenever she decided that it was time for him to do something other than sit in his bed and stare at his hands.

"Here," she said, depositing the bowl of food in his lap. "You haven't eaten since I've been here."

He didn't have the motivation to disagree, and so he obediently picked up the spoon and began. It was a welcome distraction from memories, although he could still taste the bitter hints of laudanum that White didn't have the culinary skill to hide. Still, eating was as much of a passage of time as not eating, so Connor had no strong feelings against it.

Prudence returned to her sewing, although there was still an air of tension to her face. Connor had come to realize that most of the homesteaders, for whatever reason, didn't like the idea of silence. He didn't usually try to dispel their discomfort, but it felt different with Prudence. She watched over him the most often, and she seemed the most actively concerned that he had everything he needed. For that, she at least deserved an attempt at conversation.

"Your work," Connor said. "What is it?"

She blinked and looked up in surprise. "You're talking."

"Yes."

"How is your throat?"

"Better."

"What did you ask?"

"What are you working on?" Connor crooked a finger at the cloth in her lap.

"Your jacket," she replied.

He blinked as the information slid into place. Of course. White and blue. He should have realized it sooner. The ragged edges and tears had thrown him off. He imagined that it must have been in a sorry state when he had first returned.

"Thank you," he said.

"Think nothing of it."

"How much for the repairs? I can pay you when I am healed enough to walk to the house."

Prudence looked at him, brows nearly rising to her hairline. She gaped, looked at the cloth in her hands and back at him. Then she grabbed a ball of yarn and hurled it at him.

The painkiller hadn't dulled him enough to keep him from reacting; Connor caught the ball of yarn in midair, a perplexed frown on his face. Prudence had never thrown anything at him before.

"How dare you ask me that question?" Prudence huffed, straightening her shawl. "You will do no such thing. I will accept not one pound from you, do you hear? You are not paying for this and I do not want to hear another word about it."

Connor regarded her dumbly. "Alright. I'm sorry."

"Sorry. Of course you are." She buried her fingers back into his jacket, grinding her teeth. "Pay for repairs. You're sorry. Has anyone told you that you are too nice for your own good?"

"Yes." Very many people had told him that.

"Well, you're not going to pay for this. I am doing this for you because you are my friend and you almost died last week."

_I almost die every week._ "Has it been that long?"

"A week and a day. Counting the three days you were running a fever."

_A week and a day. _Eight days. That made it… "October the tenth?"

Prudence nodded. "We're seeing snow, although it hasn't stuck yet. Won't be long now before the cold comes in for good."

"Do you want your yarn back?"

She tilted her head. "Yes, please."

Connor looked at the ball in his hands. He could move his arms. He could grasp it. It felt entirely logical to see if he could do more. Coiling up exhausted muscles, the Assassin hefted the yarn––which felt heavier than it had any right to be––and lobbed it back to Prudence.

He immediately concluded that it hadn't been a very smart thing to do. For one, he missed his target completely, and the yarn clattered against the window and dropped ungracefully to the floor. The side of his body that had orchestrated the throw pulsed with pain, but not enough pain to incapacitate him. He clenched his teeth, waited, and then it began to fade.

"Do you do nothing but injure yourself?" Prudence put her sewing aside, setting her mouth into an annoyed frown. "You are not to move! I was going to come over there and take it from you, Connor! You are to be _resting,_ not throwing things about!"

Connor folded his hands back into his lap obediently. Prudence gathered up the yarn, muttering to herself in exasperation before picking up her chair and hauling to straight to Connor's bedside.

"Here!" she exclaimed, plopping down next to him. "Now there's no reason for you to go throwing out your good health. Or your good manners. Don't throw things at people!"

That sounded a bit hypocritical, as she had been the one to throw the yarn first, but he didn't speak of it. "Yes, ma'am."

"Oh, don't you go _yes ma'am_ing me. I'm not falling for _that."_ She looked back up at him, frustration in her eyes––frustration, and a small twinkle of amusement. "You just keep yourself well and do as the doctor says, and you'll be up in no time."

Connor nodded and she went back to her sewing. He realized that, for the first time in days, he didn't want to go back to sleep just yet.

"How is Hunter?" he asked.

She smiled down at her handiwork. "He's sleeping the whole night through now, and getting bigger every day. And…" She paused, looking back and forth furtively as if she feared someone might be eavesdropping. "... And we don't think he'll be the only one for much longer." There was a twinkle in her eye and her smile turned into a grin.

"Not the only one?" Connor asked. "You don't mean…"

Prudence nodded. "Another one."

"You're pregnant again?"

"Shh!" She put a finger to her lips. "I don't know for certain quite yet. But I believe it to be so. I _feel_ it." Prudence stopped picking through the jacket and leaned back, eyes glazing over happily. "I am glad that Hunter did not come for so long. It was not the right time until we came here. This is the right place for children."

"Congratulations."

"Thank you." She picked up her needle again. "And thank you for bringing us here. I know that Warren and I don't come by the manor as often as we should, and you're always out and about with your work… but we are very grateful. A life like this is the greatest gift we could have received."

"I simply told you where the land was. You were the ones that made a life here."

"Just accept the compliment, please."

"... Thank you."

"And now I feel the need to say 'you're welcome.'" Prudence shook her head. "When did this conversation become backwards? I was the one thanking you."

Conner didn't reply, but she didn't need him to. Sighing after a few moments, Prudence leaned back in her chair and picked up a length of thread that had managed to get into a tangle. She picked at the knot, and Connor waited for her to continue the conversation. She didn't.

The night waited for neither of them, and plowed on as silence resettled. Prudence seemed quite satisfied with the words they had exchanged, and made no moves to press any more from him. The Assassin was therefore left to drift back into his private thoughts, which were just as repetitive and unhelpful as they had been before.

The next time he woke up, it was daylight and Prudence was gone.


End file.
